Breakdown
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series, the tag for 'Playthings', 2x11. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Playthings', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Matt Witten  
**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

* * *

The door's open when Dean gets back to the room, the key still in the lock like Sam didn't have the time or the inclination to pull it out. But he's just sitting there in a chair, slumped over with his back to the door, and he seems okay so Dean decides not to lecture him about leaving himself exposed like that. He just grabs the key himself and shuts the door behind him. He's a little preoccupied, anyway, by the fact that someone just died practically right under their noses and they weren't able to stop it.

"There's been another one," he says briskly, stepping around Sam and putting the key into his pocket. "Some guy just hung himself in his room."

"Yeah," Sam mumbles. "I saw."

"We gotta figure this out, and fast. What'd you find out about Granny?"

"You're bossy," Sam says, a petulant tone to his voice, and Dean instantly frowns and looks over his shoulder – not completely convinced he heard Sam right, because what he thinks Sam said doesn't make any sense.

"What?"

Sam looks up, spreading his arms out and raising his eyebrows like it should be obvious as he repeats, 'You're bossy. And short," he adds, with a giggle.

Dean gapes at him. "Are you _drunk_?"

"Yeah. So?" Sam grumbles, a prominent slur to his words. "Stupid."

Dean glances back to the dresser behind him, where there's a whole pile of empty bottles, and then he looks back at Sam, shaking his head. "Dude, what're you thinking? We're workin' a case."

Sam's face screws up a little in misery; he shifts in his seat and his eyes fill with tears as Dean watches, completely confused. "That guy. Who hung himself. I couldn't save him."

"What're you talkin' about? You didn't know, you couldn't'a done anything."

"That's an excuse, Dean," Sam says, turning his red-rimmed eyes to Dean. "I should've _found_ a way to save him. I should've saved Ava too."

"Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that." Dean moves toward his brother, but Sam slams his hand down on the side table suddenly.

"_No_, Dean, you don't understand, alright?! The more people I save, the more I can change!"

"Change what?"

"My _destiny_, Dean!"

His unfocused eyes and messy words remind Dean of how much his brother's had to drink and that there's really no point in having this conversation when Sam probably won't even remember it tomorrow.

"Alright, time for bed. C'mon, Sasquatch," he says gently, reaching down and helping Sam up. "C'mon."

"I need you to watch out for me," Sam says as he stumbles a little despite Dean's grasp on his arms.

"Yeah, I always do."

"No. No, no, no, you have to watch _out_ for me!" Sam insists. He struggles a little to get away from Dean and then looks down at him, a serious expression overtaking his face. "Alright? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not …"

Dean's insides twist around each other, silently hoping Sam won't say it, but Sam does anyway.

"You have to kill me."

"Sam."

"Dean, Dad told you to do it! You have to."

Dean feels equally like crying and shooting someone at seeing Sam so upset. And that vice that's been gripping tight around his heart ever since Dad said those things to him, all those months ago, clenches again until Dean feels like he can't breathe. "Yeah, well Dad's an ass. He never should've said anything. I mean, you don't do that, you don't lay that kinda crap on your kids!"

"No! He was right to say it!" Sam cries. "Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!"

"Well, _I'm_ not dyin', okay? And neither are you. C'mon, sit down." He shoves gently at Sam's chest and pushes him down onto the bed.

"No, _please_," Sam begs, desperate now as he grabs handfuls of Dean's jacket and pulls him in closer. "Dean, you're the only one who can do it. Promise."

Dean's throat tightens so much the words almost won't come out. "Don't ask that of me."

"Dean, please. You have to promise me."

Sam's beautiful hazel eyes are swimming with tears, and Dean honestly can't remember the last time he saw Sam this upset, regardless of the alcohol. He says, "I promise," not because he means it, but because it's the only thing he can say that might take that sad look off Sam's face that's had a hold of Dean since the day Sam was born.

Predictably, Sam's eyes glisten even more, but he looks relieved. "Thanks. Thank you," he breathes, reaching up and cupping Dean's face in his big hands.

Dean shoves him off, because he can't even begin to deal with Sam touching him like that right now. He can't think of Sam as someone he has sex with at times like this – whenever Sam's upset, immediately he's Dean's kid brother again, with a problem he's begging Dean to fix and it slices Dean up inside to know that this time, he really can't. He pushes Sam down the rest of the way onto the bed, helping him get his feet up onto the mattress too, and Sam rolls until he's on his stomach and buries his face into the pillow. Dean wipes his mouth with his hand and then runs it through his hair.

He can't kill Sam. He just can't. It was completely unfair of Dad to ask him to, and it's even more unfair for Sam to ask the same thing. They should both have known that no matter what happens, Dean won't ever be able to do that. He'd kill _himself_ before he'd hurt Sam. Dean liked to think his father was a relatively smart man, but ever since he died Dean hasn't been able to help wondering if he actually wasn't really, really stupid – to think he could spend over twenty years drilling mercilessly into Dean to take care of Sammy and protect him and to put his safety above all else, and then on his deathbed tell Dean to kill Sam instead and expect that Dean would be able to do it. He won't. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. They'll just have to find another way.

For a while, he just sits there and watches Sam breathe while tears prickle at his eyes and Dean uses every scrap of will power he has to stop them from falling. It's all too much. Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to do anymore. And then Sam stirs, mumbling something that sounds a little like Dean's name, smushed into the pillowcase, and Dean sighs shakily and shrugs out of his jacket before he joins Sam on the bed. It's too small for the both of them – maybe they should have just let Susan think they _were_ gay so they could've had a king bed – but Dean manages to gently push Sam over enough to make room for himself.

"Right here, Sammy," he whispers against Sam's hair, and Sam whimpers a little and rolls back onto his side so he can press his face into Dean's chest. Dean gets his arms around his brother and holds him close as Sam's frame shakes with silent tears. Dean does his best to ignore the ache in his heart that feels like it's breaking.

"Don't wanna hurt you," Sam mumbles, clutching clumsily at Dean's shirt.

"You wouldn't hurt me."

"Don't wanna," Sam repeats, burrowing in closer like he's trying to climb into Dean's skin.

He smells like booze instead of like Sam, but he's a warm and familiar weight against Dean's body. Dean doesn't know what else to say in response; he doesn't really think anything he could say would make either of them feel better right now. And, Sam's drunk. Dean keeps momentarily forgetting that. The emotions are real, Dean knows they are, but they're being amped up by the alcohol so it's hard to gauge exactly how Sam's really feeling about everything. So instead, he gets one hand up into Sam's hair and pets it like he used to when Sam'd had a nightmare. It used to put him back to sleep faster than anything else, back when he was still young enough that it was okay for the two of them to touch like this. Sam visibly relaxes as Dean's fingers move through the strands.

"Can't let me go bad," Sam slurs, half asleep so his words are almost unintelligible, but Dean catches them anyway. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut tight. He can't let the tears fall. He has to be strong, for Sam.

"I won't," he promises. "We're gonna figure it out, okay? Gotta keep you around, need you."

"Need you," Sam agrees breathlessly, rubbing his forehead into Dean's collarbone. "_Love_ you. Love you so much."

"I know you do," Dean says, his voice tight and pinched, but Sam's probably too drunk and upset to notice. "Sleep, Sammy."

"Stay? Please?"

"'Course I will."

* * *

"You two take care'a yourselves, alright?" Sam says, holding the door of the cab open.

Susan turns around before she gets in and hugs him – Sam looks a little surprised but he hugs her back. "Thank you. Both of you."

Dean nods and smiles at her, and then she gets into the cab and Sam shuts the door behind her just before it pulls away.

"Think you could'a hooked up some milf action there, bud," Dean jokes, and Sam huffs. "I'm serious, I think she liked you."

"Yeah, that's all she needs."

"Well, you saved the mom, you saved the girl, not a bad day. 'Course, y'know, I could've saved 'em myself, but I didn't want you to feel useless or anything."

Sam chuckles and walks around to his side of the car. "Alright, I appreciate it."

"Feels good to get back in the saddle, doesn't it?" Dean asks, fishing the keys to the Impala out of his pocket.

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "Yeah, it does. But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean."

Dean pauses. "We talked about a lotta things last night," he says carefully.

"You know what I mean."

"You were wasted," Dean tells him.

"But you weren't. And you promised."

Sam stares at him for a second, that miserable expression back on his face, and then he climbs into the car. There are a lot of things Dean would like to say to that, but none of them seem to be able to force their way past his lips, so just follows Sam into the Impala, shoves the keys into the ignition, and drives away. He doesn't get farther than a few miles away, though, before everything he's been trying so hard to shove down bubbles back up again and he can't take it anymore. He pulls over to the side of the highway and gets back out, pacing a few steps away and then turning back to find Sam leaning against the passenger's side door, watching Dean with a look that's both apprehensive and not at all surprised, like he knew this was coming.

"I can't kill you," Dean says, the words snagging on emotion in his throat on the way out. "You can't ask me to do that."

"I didn't ask you to," Sam answers heavily. "Dad did. But you said you would. You promised him and you promised me."

"I promised him because I didn't know what the _fuck_ he was talking about!" Dean yells. "And I promised you because you drank enough to kill a frat boy and I thought you wouldn't remember!"

"So you lied to me."

Dean sighs. "Sam."

"You did!"

"Yeah! Okay, fine, I lied! Could you maybe stop thinking about yourself for half a second and try to see this from my side? You were drunk and upset, so yeah, I lied! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Not lie to me! We're never supposed to lie to each other!" Sam cries.

"You didn't exactly give me much choice!" Dean fires back. "You were completely trashed and you were in tears! That was not the time to actually have a serious discussion about this! I said what you wanted to hear so you'd shut up about it and go to bed! You can't hold that against me!"

Sam just shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes again. "You think I want to? I don't want _any_ of this, Dean! I don't _want_ to die! But I don't wanna hurt people either! I don't wanna hurt you!"

"Who the hell says you ever would?!"

"Dad!"

"Well, Dad didn't have any idea what he was talking about, then," Dean says firmly. "He didn't _know_ you, Sammy. Not like I do."

"I don't wanna become something evil," Sam says hoarsely, his eyes swimming with all those unshed tears and with all the things Dean should be able to protect him from but can't. "I'd rather be dead than be some kinda monster, and so would you."

"Sam."

"If I ever hurt you? I mean, if I turn and something happened to you? I couldn't … that's the absolute worst thing I can imagine. You can't let it happen, Dean, you just can't. I can't hurt you, I _love_ you."

Dean glares. "Don't. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say that! That word! I'm so fucking _sick_ of that word! I hate it!" Dean storms. "You can't tell me you feel that way about me and then ask me to _kill_ you in the same sentence!"

"What other choice do I have? I didn't _do_ this, Dean. Whatever's happening, I didn't ask for it, but it's still _happening_ whether we want it to or not."

"I can't …" Dean sighs and rubs his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his closed eyes. "I can't talk about this right now. God, if we actually get through this alive I'm gonna need a lifetime of freakin' therapy or whiskey just to get to sleep at night!"

"So, what, we just keep moving and pretend nothing's wrong? You really think that's gonna solve anything?" Sam asks angrily, but Dean really can't do this anymore.

He doesn't answer his brother; he just gets back into the car and turns the engine back on. After a minute or so of staring at Dean through the windshield, Sam gets back in too, and Dean pulls the Impala back onto the highway and just drives.


End file.
